


A Silent Dirge

by sass_bot



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 15:27:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20230105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sass_bot/pseuds/sass_bot
Summary: “It’s a real shame nobody asked for your opinion.”When Miriam's husband falls during the attack on Haven, Anya makes a feeble attempt to offer words of comfort.[Originally posted on tumblr 14.10.2018]





	A Silent Dirge

The sky is black over the Inquisition as its shattered remains stand in silent reverence in a snowy courtyard. Not even one hundred people are present at the vigil, and each is covered in a blanket of sorrow and guilt. The Commander of the Inquisition stands distantly and quietly at the front, his eyes to the ground, like a beaten dog. Each person lost had been an extension of himself.

Miriam’s hair feels like damp cloth sitting on her head, and her robes are stiff and dirty. She marches into Skyhold, a black train dragging across the mud and snow as she finds her way to the center of the yard, standing tall, even amongst the soldiers. The castle is a hollow hope, like a platitude played on repeat so many times that the words start to lose their meaning.

Is she supposed to feel happy she survived? Does that give his death meaning?

Her fingers fiddle with a string of prayer beads hidden in her sleeves. One prayer that his grave is soft. One prayer that his soul can rest easily. One prayer that he may find his way to the Maker’s side. One prayer to give their daughter strength and safety. One prayer to keep her own knees from buckling underneath her.

The hair on her neck stands on end when she senses someone behind her, and her discomfort doesn’t ease when she sees that it is the Warden Commander who has rolled up beside her on her makeshift wheelchair.

“For what it’s worth,” Anya tells her stiffly. “It was quick.”

Miriam’s jaw quivers and her lips tighten into a straight line. She keeps her sights on Mother Giselle, who is leading the vigil in prayer. “That gives me no comfort. He was my husband.”

Anya’s flapping lips are like a rotten pipe, spewing rust and filthy water. Down in her wooden seat, she couldn’t meet Miriam’s eyes even if she wanted to. “Cousland… Cedric… He was a good man. Until his last moments.”

The words that leave Miriam’s lips come thoughtlessly and without remorse. “If that mattered, you would be dead in his place.”

Anya’s reply comes after a significant pause, in which her shoulders nearly collapse in on themselves. “You’re right.”

Miriam’s eyes are as dry as a desert, and her tone is like acid when she speaks. “It’s a real shame, then, that nobody asked for your opinion.”


End file.
